


A Summons Southbound

by caffeinatedmusing



Series: The Care and Feeding of Vampires [6]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Forced Retirement, Gen, General Adventure, not sure what else to tag this as
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2019-03-12 23:10:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13557564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caffeinatedmusing/pseuds/caffeinatedmusing
Summary: Vernon Roche is not handling his post war life all that well. A letter from a certain witcher may hold the answer to his immediate future.





	A Summons Southbound

Vernon Roche woke to an immense pounding in his head and a terrible taste in his mouth. As if he’d fallen asleep sucking on unwashed socks. And facedown across his bed, where he’d apparently collapsed last night. Or had it been this morning? The past weeks blended together; he couldn’t recall and didn’t much care. 

He rolled over and knuckled the sleep crust out of the corners of his eyes, trying to breathe past his brain’s riotous complaining. _Why was it so loud?_ Groggy, it took him a while to work out that it wasn’t his imagination. By then, the door had slammed back against the stopper and booted feet stomped from the hallway into his rooms.

“Roche? Wake the fuck up!”

Ves hadn’t bothered knocking. 

Stumbling out of bed, he checked to make sure he didn’t have vomit on his shirt. Though it would hardly matter if he did; Ves had seen worse. They all had. He shuffled out to see what his former second wanted, squinting against the sunlight glaring in through the tiny unwashed window. 

She dumped her jacket over the chair and set two coffees on the rickety table along with a folded paper, it’s wax seal already broken.

“You look like horse-trodden shit. Smell like it, too.”

“I feel like horse-trodden shit.” He restrained the urge to sniff himself. “Why are you here? We’re not to associate any more. Emperor’s orders.”

“Fuck that. And fuck him. I’ve got news.”

“No, Ves. No news. You shouldn’t even be here. I. Am. _Retired._ ” The word was a deflation of ego, moral, hope, and lungs all in one word. He slumped down into the chair not claimed by Ves’s coat.

Emhyr had made it clear. He wouldn’t hang them for the role they had played in the war, nor in the regicide, but they had been given an ultimatum; join his army and serve him, or fuck off and make damned certain their names never crossed his desk again. Roche had opted to fuck off. Service to Nilfgaard wasn’t something he could stomach, and he knew the offer for what it was; a short leash for the Emperor to keep them on. Still, some of his men had accepted. The ones with no families or homes to speak of. He hadn’t been able to find it in himself to blame them. The military was all some of them knew. _It was all I knew._ The Blue Stripes were officially disbanded.

Roche had not pictured it happening like this. 

His service to Foltest would have gone on until he was ready to retire. He might even have been allowed to train a replacement. Maybe stayed on for a time in an advisory position. He would have been rewarded with some land, maybe a minor title, and a nice pension to last him until he died. His final years would have been comfortable, if not extravagant. That had suited him just fine.

Here he was, still fit and able to serve, wasting away of booze and ennui in a seemingly endless series of shittier apartments and flophouse rooms as his coin ran out. The only trophies he had to show for his years of loyalty and accumulated skill? Scars, several missing toes from frostbite, the lingering digestive issues that came from living in the rough surrounded by men dying of gangrene and dysentery, and now an empty coin purse. No pension. No land. The only title he might claim these days would buy him a one-way ticket to the gallows. 

He had tried to look for work. There were no jobs; the few places hiring wanted young men with skills he did not have, or for jobs he would not do. He’d finally found work as a bouncer here in exchange for room and board, but he’d managed to lose his temper last night on a customer who’d mouthed off and gotten himself fired. 

The idea of becoming an apprentice to some inn keeper or merchant, at his age, made him furious. He could go the mercenary route; he still had his armor and weapons, but mercs were a copper a dozen these days as every other out of work soldier and deserter got the same idea. The roadsides were littered with the hanged bodies of the failures, the competition fierce. It was too close to the life of these past months, one he was trying to leave behind.

For the first time in his life, Vernon Roche was without purpose. 

Ves, she took to change like a fish to water. She had had little to no trouble finding work. She even had a suitor these days, or so the rumors said. She would succeed, no matter what she put her mind to. 

_So why was she here?_

He wrapped his hands around the steaming mug of black bitter liquid and savored the aroma a moment before hazarding a sip. It was probably crap. But after months of living off spoiled rations scrounged from war torn backwater hamlets on the edges of the wilderness, trying to balance starvation against food poisoning, his threshold for the quality of what he ate and drank had lowered considerably.

Ves slung her chair around and sat on it backwards, after rummaging for some sugar to add to hers. Roche was mildly amazed she found any. They drank for bit in silence.

“What time is it?” Roche finally asked.

“Midafternoon. Innkeep’s fixing to kick your ass out before dark. He wanted that I should remind you. What did you say, anyway?” She eyed the raw scrapes on his knuckles. Roche tended to talk with his fists more than was appropriate when he got angry. 

“Hm. Fucked if I remember.” Roche grumbled. He didn’t want to get into it again. 

“Well, what are you going to do?”

“Move on. I hadn’t given it much thought. One shithole is the same as any other.”

“Then today is your lucky day. Or should I say our lucky day, because I’ve already decided that I’m going.”

She shoved the paper over towards him.

“No, Ves. No missions. We’ve been over this.”

“Fine. You rot here; you’ll be dead by years end at the rate you’re going. I’ve got a wager on that. And I’ll go see what Geralt wants. I’ll be sure to tell him you were a right pissy son of a bitch about it.” Ves stood and grabbed her coat.

“Wait…Geralt? What?” 

He made a grab for the paper, but Ves was already halfway out the door.

He caught up to her on the street, heading for the carriage that had apparently dropped her off, struggling to pull his gambeson on and fumbling to untangle his sword belt. _When the hell did I get so fucking uncoordinated. Fucking hangover. Fucking everything. Fuck._

She smirked at him, that one that said she had known all along he would follow, and shifted over to make room in the carriage for him before signaling to the driver to be off.

“Well then, are you going to tell me where the hell we’re going? Where’s Geralt?”

She handed him the letter. He managed to unfold it, but between his headache, dry scratchy eyes, and the swaying of the carriage, any attempt at reading it only made him nauseous. He swallowed hard and squinted out the window, refocusing on the horizon.

“Toussaint!” Ves grinned, unable to contain the news any longer. “I’ve never been, have you? It’s supposed to be beautiful.”

“No, I’ve never been. Why’s he out there?”

“Say’s he’s starting a school. Swordplay and witcher stuff. He wants to know if we’ll help teach. He invited us to come out and take a look before we decide. He’ll put us up and everything!”

Teaching…? Strange that he hadn’t considered it. Sword fighting, defenses, military tactics; now _that_ he could do. It might even be interesting; after what he had seen at Khaer Morhen he certainly wouldn’t mind learning more about witcher fighting styles, if the opportunity presented itself. And it seemed to have presented itself. About fucking time something did. 

Vernon Roche grunted his acknowledgement, folded his arms across his chest, and slouched down to get some more sleep. 

Lucky day, indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this while I was struggling to finish TCD. Because of course my brain was like 'what if we just wrote this totally different thing right now?' Anyway, I think it was mostly an excuse to write the word 'fuck' a lot more often. *shrugs* But its been side eyeing me from my writing folder so I figured I 'd just post it and get it over with.


End file.
